


All Things Are Moved

by LittleRedCosette



Series: Resplendence [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mid-Canon, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Inception, implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4870278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRedCosette/pseuds/LittleRedCosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>880 days before Eames dies, Arthur finds him again.<br/>835 days before Eames dies, they start over.<br/>(Prequel to Heaven’s Weight – no actual MCD here!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Reading Heaven’s Weight is not a necessity, but it might help a little bit, as most of this story is referenced in HW in some way. Or you can read it after. That might be interesting. There is no Major Character Death here, but it is referenced as a future event. (Several times.)
> 
> Warning for an excessive use of parenthesis, and a very broken up timeline. Oh, and it gets a bit angsty and mushy, too.
> 
> Title taken from: His glory, by which whose might all things are moved, pierces the universe, and in one part sheds more resplendence, elsewhere less. ~ Dante, Paradiso

**880 days before Eames dies, Arthur finds him again.**

**Paris**

.

.

Arthur keeps his eyes closed, wakes up slower than usual. Forgets why in the dim of the grey, breezy dawn light battering at the uncovered windows.

One leg is out of the covers, numb with cold, foot dangling over the edge of the mattress. The other is warm, snug, bent at the knee, and when he twitches his toes the rustling is silky quiet.

His smile, half hidden by a pillow that’s pressing deep imprints in his cheek, creases his sleep stiff muscles.

He can’t feel his arms, and his spine is twisted, and through his eyelashes daybreak glitters.

Realisation, when it comes, is a flash of lightning bolting through his ribcage, tugging at his hips. He’s sitting up before his eyes can even flutter open.

The satisfying cracks of his vertebrae trill from his tailbone to his neck like the scale of a piano. He groans, gives his knuckles the same rippling treatment, and his smile is deep enough to split into a yawn, lion wide and loud.

He tumbles out of bed with all the grace of a walrus ashore, stumbling into the en-suite shower on unsteady feet that slide like flippers on the tiles.

When he bangs his hairline on the showerhead for the second time, scrubbing shampoo out of his stinging eyes and cursing, he stops, takes a deep breath of lemon scented air. He carefully clicks the water to an icy temperature that shocks his nerves into better waking up his brain.

‘Fucking moron,’ he mutters with badly squashed embarrassment into the water, scratches the bubbles out of his scalp and leaves the bathroom with greater care than he entered it, because god knows the last thing he needs is to crack his skull open on the toilet seat.

For one thing, he’d never hear the end of it.

The apartment feels smaller than it has done in the five years since he first walked in after buying it, burdened with a handful of books, a PASIV and four suits. He pads through it in his socks as he fights the buttons of his shirt with numb fingers.

Nerves are eating his intestines, and he’d blush at his own reflection if it would do him any good.

(It won’t.)

It isn’t that Arthur doesn’t get nervous, as most assume. It’s just that Arthur has carefully crafted his work persona around his ticks, honed his nervous tells into his everyday demeanour.

There are four people alive today who can spot Arthur’s nerves for what they are, and two of those people are his father and big sister.

The third is a man called Clarke Morton, who actually might be dead now for all Arthur knows.

The fourth is arriving in Paris today, has taken a redeye from Sydney but he’ll be in before ten all the same. Arthur would bet his right hand on it if he were a gambling man, which he isn’t.

(Most of the time.)

He dresses in relative silence, staring at the shelves that are only half filled with his own books. Sunlight creeps over the horizon through the east facing window in increments of dusky marigold and silver, and is still only half risen by the time Arthur steps out onto the cobbled street below ten minutes later.

The air, crisp and dewy, sneaks under his collar as he walks at a brisk pace, but when he stops at the corner bakery that doesn’t seem to have a specific opening time – actually, it just doesn’t seem to have a _closing_ time, much to Arthur’s likeminded delight – the young woman who has been greeting him with a cheery smile every morning that he has allowed himself the time for breakfast is as warm as ever.

She greets him with pink cheeks and bright green eyes that sparkle to match her laugh, her blonde hair tied up in a carefree knot. There’s flour on her apron, on her hands and there’s a dusting of it on her forehead that might have even Arthur a little weak at the knees on any other day. But today he is distracted, and despite her usual flirting he leaves with the same efficiency with which he entered, now bearing steaming, freshly ground coffee and a flaky, oven warm croissant.

He takes a taxi to three blocks away from the warehouse, because he is both impatient and cautious. The driver eyes the beverage grasped tightly in his hand with a distrustful gaze, and continually glances at Arthur in the rear view mirror for potential spillages the entire journey.

Arthur, for his part, ignores him.

Instead, he rests his forehead against the window, the vibrations only aggravating the tension knot at the base of his skull, and considers the day ahead.

On good days he can con himself into believing it has only been a sleepless few weeks, since the disaster of Cobol rained down upon their heads, but today, his watch ticking sluggishly towards seven o’clock, is already feeling less and less like a _good_ day.

It’s not a bad day, of course, couldn’t possibly be a _bad_ day, but Arthur has been digging through the minds of others, only half the time with their permission, for eight years now. It’s been a long time since anything of his was split into merely good and bad.

Still, despite the eagerness with which he met it, today is not a _good_ day, and therefore Arthur is finding it much more difficult to ignore the fact that it has in fact been a sleepless two years, an endless string of jobs that feel as if they have amounted to a lifetime of worrying.

(The irony of an endless string of dream jobs resulting in shadows of sleeplessness under his eyes is only painful.)

He overpays the taxi driver and walks the three blocks to the warehouse with his eyes on the ground, shoulders curving around his coffee, unsure whether he’s protecting the drink or himself.

The warehouse is empty when he arrives, as usual, and he takes his time double checking all the workspaces, his untouched croissant left still flaky but cooled on his desk as he sips his coffee.

Yusuf’s station is littered with vials acting as paperweights for notations that Arthur is familiar with, but doesn’t completely understand; he notices a piece of paper with measurements that he recognises as his own, followed by a series of chemical equations that Arthur hopes tells Yusuf exactly how much formula and sedative he should be receiving.

Not that Arthur is incapable of making those particular calculations himself. It has been close to a decade, after all.

He’s a little unnerved that they have been left so casually in the open, however. As flattered as he maybe should be that Yusuf has such faith that his security capabilities extend so far, he makes a mental note to have a word with the chemist about keeping important details of the team more private.

Ariadne, a true architect, has organised her space into well defined compartments that remind him of his father’s desk when he was a child, unlabelled with no understandable system, yet everything exactly in its place. She had taken to paradoxes seemingly effortlessly, and had already started exploring the boundaries of negotiable spatial relativity before it had come up in their discussions.

He smiles down at the top blue print, which to an intruder might look like nothing more than a simple floor map.

Arthur skims past Cobb’s work station for several reasons, not least of which is that he knows how Cobb works almost as well as he knows himself, but more out of a complete disinterest in seeing Cobb’s plans.

Inception, whatever he might pretend to the green, fresh faced architect, still frightens Arthur. The last thing he needs is more assumptive – to the point of _optimistic_ – notes from their oh so knowledgeable leader on the malleability of a man’s relationship with his father.

He thinks briefly of his own father, the inexplicable bonds of parent and child that transcend all manner of wrongs. Wrongs which, as much as Arthur hates to admit it, are not entirely his father’s.

So no, he doesn’t look over Cobb’s notes. Instead he returns to his own desk, takes a bite out of his croissant and he sits, begins the arduous albeit satisfying process of organising his notes into categories of persons relevant, followed by a chronological order of when they will be addressed and dealt with.

Arthur’s reputation, after all, is not one of gossip’s inflation.

This includes, of course, his sense of motivation, and consequently Cobb’s arrival at eight-thirty, followed by Ariadne’s arrival at eight-forty-five, come unexpectedly quickly.

At the sound of Cobb’s familiar gait he pauses only long enough to ensure he isn’t going to be interrupted with new information or requests, but when he hears Ariadne’s quiet footsteps he glances up from his notes, offering a friendly look of assurance that isn’t a smile, but is a far cry from the glowers he’s been sending the CCTV shots of Fischer’s face for the past hour.

‘Morning Arthur,’ she says with her usual wave, dumping her things under her desk and immediately pulling out a small stack of carbon paper from beneath the top blueprint.

Arthur knows it’s her vast imagination and capacity for retaining knowledge fast that’s going to make her a renowned dreamshare architect, should she choose such a career.

(She will.)

Nonetheless, he takes a moment to appreciate her practicality, which is in his opinion an equally, if not perhaps even more attractive quality. Her lack of hesitancy, her hands on approach to every curveball he’s thrown her in her quick fire training.

Her apparent unquestioning faith in him is a little alarming, and something Arthur’s not entirely sure what to do with because another person’s trust isn’t something he’s regularly afforded so freely. He’s going to have to do something about it eventually, as whether it’s naivety or a complete lack of self-preservation Ariadne’s going to need to understand that he is happily, willingly a criminal first and foremost.

But not yet, because right now he needs her unflinching trust if they’re ever going to pull this off.

Yusuf arrives bearing fresh teabags for the kettle a few minutes after nine o’clock, an announcement that churns something familiar and sickly in Arthur’s stomach. He doesn’t look up, merely glances at his watch and returns to compiling a record of all the notable events and galas Maurice and Robert Fischer have ever attended together, in the off chance they can recreate a similar one as a dream level.

As the time edges closer to half past nine, Arthur’s internal clock is doing somersaults that have little to do with his circadian rhythms and more a fear that for the first time in his life he’s going to be proven wrong about –

Abruptly, the warehouse door opens with a louder creak than it had for the others.

(That’s a complete lie, but it makes the freezing of Arthur’s muscles feel a little more justified.)

‘Well, well, well,’ a sly voice teases, ‘aren’t we all little busy bees this morning?’

Arthur stares at his laptop screen, the off white glare of a photograph of two very tense Fischer men standing awkwardly side by side at a charity ball for sick children somewhere in the world that they probably care very little about, and he feels a surge of sympathy for the two men.

‘Eames,’ Cobb says, and his chair scrapes hard over the floor as he gets up to greet their forger with several long strides and no doubt a handshake at the end of it.

‘Always a pleasure,’ Eames says, and Arthur wonders if Cobb can hear that he’s already being made fun of.

Probably not. He’s never been as good at reading the forger as his wife was.

‘Eames, I’d like you to meet Ariadne, our new architect. Brand new, actually. Ariadne, this is Eames, our forger.’

Arthur reminds himself as the hand on his laptop keys twitches and the other threatens to break the pen it’s holding, that this is entirely for Ariadne’s benefit, and not a personal dig with a very large spade into his abdomen.

‘Eames,’ Ariadne says in a breathless voice that means he’s probably kissed her hand, the bastard, ‘good to finally meet you.’

‘And you, Ariadne,’ the forger replies with his most sincere voice.

Before he can say more, however, Yusuf interrupts them.

‘Eames!’ he shouts in a commanding, dismissive tone of familiarity that he’s never used with any of the others before, ‘get your arse over here so I can measure you. I need to organise your dosages to align with the others’.’

Eames groans audibly, and Ariadne’s snicker turns Arthur’s stomach cold. At a click of his laptop, the photograph on his screen is replaced with a _News of the World_ article discussing said event, including a minor incident that may or may not have taken place at the same table where the Fischers were seated. The words are little more than a blur.

‘Coming, mother,’ Eames grumbles. ‘You measured me up two months ago, you know.’

He might glance at Arthur before obeying Yusuf’s demand, or he might not. Arthur wouldn’t know, because Arthur doesn’t look.

Instead Arthur pretends to read more articles that say the exact same thing over and over again, the only thing ever really changing being the date on the top right hand corner, and listens to Yusuf tease Eames about putting on weight in a good natured tone that makes Arthur wonder how long they’ve known each other.

Eames has always had an uncanny ability to make people _feel_ as if they know the ins and outs of him, of giving the _impression_ that he’s opening the book cover and allowing anyone and everyone to peruse at will.

This is rarely actually the case, but Yusuf’s interaction with Eames panders to none of his usual confidence man’s charms. They are friends, and Arthur is disproportionately annoyed by this.

He sighs quietly to himself to expel some of the bitter taste that isn’t coffee from his throat, flicking through photos now as if through a magazine.

His watch reads nine-forty-eight.

It’s entirely within his right to skip over the first two or three things he has lined up for this morning and jump straight to going under with Ariadne to discuss and practise necessary and unavoidable interactions with projections.

 _Fifteen minutes_ , he promises himself. _Fifteen minutes, then you’re done_.

He should have made it ten.

Twelve minutes later a shadow falls over his desk, almost as familiar as his own, and he purses his lips together, because he can’t quite tell if it’s a smile or a scowl brewing on the surface but he doesn’t really want to offer either right now. He looks up from his laptop with slow, cautious eyes.

Eames is wearing an only vaguely offensive pattern of blue and white, today, which would once have been enough for Arthur to nod encouragingly at him.

His eyes, glittering spider grey and incurious, regard him from a distance that feels more like miles than the mere metre it really is between them. His expression, impassive, doesn’t change as he cocks his head to the side.

‘Morning Arthur,’ he says coolly, and not unkindly, which Arthur rather wishes it was. ‘Got anything for me?’

Arthur clears his throat and refuses to look away as he hands over a stuffed file. Their fingers do not touch as Eames takes it, and Arthur, who is eternally grateful, can’t explain the small dip of disappointment in his gut.

‘Anything for me, Mr Eames?’ he replies. If he sounds cold to anyone else, he doubts Eames won’t hear the tremor in the _Mr._

‘Not yet,’ Eames replies with a silky smile that doesn’t sit right on his face. ‘Going under this afternoon, are we?’

‘After lunch,’ Arthur replies, and when he frowns Eames appears to know what’s wrong, because he drops the badly worn smile instantly, and there’s something ugly like shame in his averted eyes.

‘I’d better get to it, then,’ he says, too loud and too dismissive. He’s sitting down, spreading his open file out across his own desk before Arthur can reply, can tell him not to worry, can tell him to _get some sleep, you asshole_.

Eames doesn’t sleep on planes, this Arthur knows, just as Eames knows that Arthur doesn’t sleep on trains.

(Except for jobs, he thinks ruefully to himself, and proceeds to glare at a photo of a slightly drunk Robert Fischer waving his hand in front of cameras to try conceal his leggy, blonde date from view.)

.

.

At this very moment in time, Arthur is aware of three very distinct possibilities:

Firstly, that Eames regrets Monaco even more than Arthur does;

Secondly, that they are being watched by the rest of the team who have suddenly developed full mind-reading capabilities and have consequently laid bare all Arthur’s secrets in the last twelve seconds;

Thirdly, that he is not only as in love with Eames as he has ever been, but that he will probably never love anyone who isn’t Eames for the rest of his life.

.

.

The rest of the day is split in Arthur’s mind into seven stages of infuriation.

.

.

( ** _one_** – _in which Arthur the Teacher almost learns something himself_ )

.

.

The dream is too vivid, like an overexposed photograph, the sky burned out. The sun is a blind eye amidst a haze of clouds, and the buildings feel more like New York than they did yesterday.

Ariadne waits in the grey shade of a great, sprawling tree that stands in the centre of a large square courtyard, looking about a million years old. Arthur takes in its squirming roots and withering branches.

At his questioning look, Ariadne shrugs, looking inordinately pleased with herself.

‘Ever been to Cadiz?’ she asks.

Arthur shrugs, but he isn’t there for the tree, and Ariadne doesn’t seem offended when he doesn’t enquire further.

‘I wanted to see if I could make it _feel_ like a dream,’ she says. Arthur doesn’t comment on the note of shyness that colours her tone. It sits unnaturally on her tongue, at odds with the outspoken curiosity she usually exudes, though he’s heard it now and again, the gentle fear of rebuke.

He allows her a tight smile as they make their way out of the high walled courtyard and onto a street that gives the impression of Manhattan, though Arthur wonders if she’s ever been there himself because it _feels_ more like Brooklyn.

His projections, held at bay only by his own sense of control, still walk with the air of predators around them.

He takes in the bright texture of the dream, remembers building this sort of world when he first started out, too, bewildered by the possibilities.

‘This sort of effect can be achieved much easier with chemicals,’ he explains unapologetically, and Ariadne looks more excited than embarrassed by his correction. ‘It takes a lot more effort on the part of the dreamer to sustain this intensity.’

Ariadne stares around at her world, the green leaves of the trees almost toxic, the skyscrapers that look stretched in their tallness, kissing the overly clean air.

‘I don’t feel any different,’ she replies, a little defensive.

This time Arthur’s smile is bigger. He probably said the exact same thing to Cobb, first time.

‘Not yet you don’t,’ he says wryly, enjoys the feel of Cobb’s words on his lips almost as much as the sound of his own on Ariadne’s. ‘Let’s see the circuit,’ he continues before she can argue, gesturing ahead to the roundabout that should lead to a ring road.

Ariadne leads the way, two steps ahead. She seems alert, probably because yesterday she almost provoked a projection and was given a taste of what lay in waiting beneath the calm surface of Arthur’s mind. He doesn’t particularly regret frightening her, though. She might not be going under in Fischer’s mind, but it would be foolish to let her get blasé about what she’s dealing with.

Arthur allows himself a moment to revel in the sheer joy of the dreamscape, all the overly eager details of a new architect flexing her muscles. There are birds that his subconscious certainly hasn’t put there, a flock of starlings that shouldn’t really be anything more than background noise but here are scattered and chirping, their sleek feathers glittering in the sunlight.

He’s corrected her once on her enthusiasm for wildlife. She had simply shrugged off his criticism with a guilty smile and said, ‘ _What? My dad’s a birdwatcher.’_

Taking note of the roads, he pauses, frowning. There’s something wrong with the road, the psychedelic twinge of the dream almost managing to block the problem from view. When he realises, though, his smile splits into a grin and he jogs the few steps to catch up with Ariadne, who’s waiting for him on the street corner that bleeds into beltway a little too abruptly to be natural.

She’s wearing a strange expression, one he can’t yet read because unlike _some_ his people reading takes time and careful mental notation. Unlike _some_ he can’t simply –

‘Are you ok?’ Ariadne asks, and Arthur feels the unexpected frown on his face before he loosens it into a calm, politely interested expression.

( _It’s the dream_ , he tells himself, _Just the dream throwing you off_.)

(It isn’t, of course, but Arthur is a stubborn man.)

‘You ever lived in Britain?’ he asks, and Ariadne is suspiciously unsurprised by the question. She shakes her head slowly, tucking her hair behind her ears. ‘Australia?’

Again she shakes her head.

‘Why?’ she asks, dragging out the single syllable like it should be three.

‘Your road signs are positioned for left-hand traffic,’ he says with a note of admonishment. ‘I’m American. My projections are automatically going to be right-hand traffic drivers.’

Ariadne, without batting an eyelid, checks her watch.

‘Yeah,’ she says, lips wrapped around her words in a smile, ‘but it took you almost fifteen minutes to realise.’

Arthur, who very much does bat an eyelid or twelve, stares at her with unashamed incredulity. Ariadne shrugs, and visibly tries not to look too much like a cat rolling in cream.

‘Ok,’ Arthur says slowly, doesn’t want to give her _too_ much lest she get cocky.

He can’t help the gut feeling she probably deserves to feel a bit cocky.

Of course, today of all days Arthur is going to be easier to fool. Today of all days Arthur is distracted, and as close to off his game as he’s ever been.

For a moment he fears Ariadne knows, has maybe even _noticed_ and that’s why the sudden games. But she cocks her head to the side, eyebrows quirked as she waits for praise or punishment, doesn’t seem particularly bothered which one she gets.

‘Very good,’ he says, nods and stares at the cars on the road, their gleaming windscreens and purring engines and the fact that none of them are concerned by the backs of the road signs where there should be directions.

‘So you’ve already figured out some of the perks of distracting the subject with pretty lights and colours.’

Ariadne, to her credit, doesn’t push for more than he’s already given her. Seeks only more information, and Arthur feels a grounding swell of pride for his student.

‘What’s the risk in an actual job setting of the subject being freaked out by a psychedelic dreamscape, though?’ she asks.

They’re still standing on the street corner, traffic rumbling past and incredibly loud birds in the trees.

‘Depends on the mark,’ he replies coolly. ‘If you’ve got a part time partaker in ecstasy, they’re going to feel pretty at home, and it actually makes it easier. Or someone with a vivid imagination. This is the sort of dreamscape that would be believable to someone like Eames. Someone like me would need a dreamscape as close to reality as is possible.’

It’s not until he’s finished and Ariadne pauses a second too long before replying that he realises Ariadne only met Eames about an hour ago. She has no idea what _someone like Eames_ means. He interrupts before Ariadne can finish whatever train of thought is clocking in her mind.

‘Not that it would be so easy to break into either of our minds. Impossible or logical, we’re too experienced to make it an easy ride.’

‘You’ve worked with him before.’

If she meant it to be a question, it was a terrible effort. Ariadne’s eyes, a warm shade of brown brightened by the intelligence that glitters there, narrow ever so slightly.

Or maybe Arthur is imagining things.

(This would not be today’s greatest revelation.)

‘Yes. Several times,’ Arthur replies, because lying would be futile and possibly even stupider than telling the truth.

The questions might as well be written across her forehead, so Arthur cuts in a second time.

Just in case more truths slip out.

‘Let’s get ourselves a car. I want to see the ring road. Did you look into the diverted traffic I asked about yesterday?’

.

.

Here is something true:

Arthur is loyal out of pride, principle, and vanity.

It is also in his nature.

.

.

Here is something false:

Arthur loves unconditionally.

.

.

( ** _two_** – _in which Arthur the Point Man  indulges_ )

.

.

They all leave for lunch.

It’s a respite he is afforded every day, and he eases into it more smoothly than ever.

Eames is the last to leave, his eyes too loud, his footsteps too quiet.

.

.

Arthur works through his lunch break because he doesn’t each lunch.

This is a periodic habit he has been cultivating for almost ten years that, like a sprawling garden of tricky thorns, needs vigilant attention.

.

.

( ** _three_** – _in which Arthur the Workaholic learns nothing_ )

.

.

Arthur’s not entirely sure how it happens, but one minute he is mapping the annual routes of the Fischers’ travels as the soft chatter of the rest of the team settles back into a working rhythm, and the next there is a turkey club sandwich next to his left elbow, as well as a large bar of white chocolate and a bottle of water.

.

.

Eames is hunched over his desk when Arthur looks around, and the prowling smugness that surrounds him like a dazzling membrane is so familiar it isn’t quite enough to confirm his suspicions.

Not that Arthur needs them confirming, of course, because it’s no coincidence.

(They don’t exist.)

.

.

Something unimportant:

By the time Eames and Arthur meet, Eames has been, among other things, a forger, a prostitute, a contract killer, an addict, and an inmate at HMP Wandsworth.

It’s not that Eames doesn’t love painting and sex and guns and drugs and, well, there’s very little to love about Wandsworth except the contacts it buys him, but dreams offer him all of this without the spot checks and lack of privacy and high alert showers.

Actually, all of these things are distinct possibilities with Arthur around,

Still, Eames enjoys them a lot more now.

.

.

Something important:

Arthur is unhappy until he is twenty years old.

(Then there is the gradual inclination of limbo, but not Limbo.)

Arthur is actually happy when he is twenty-five years old.

Arthur is happy on a Friday in Seville, when he has a belly full of sangria and has just dumped an entire glass of orange juice all over Eames’ head, and it is very warm and Arthur laughs very loudly.

(This is very important.)

.

.

( ** _four_** – _in which Arthur the Point Man puts his proverbial head in the proverbial game and forgets it’s not actually proverbial at all_ )

.

.

Mr Saito’s arrival, which had not been anticipated for some days, is a surprisingly welcome disruption to what might otherwise have been for Arthur an arduously silent day of staring inanely at a laptop screen until he goes blind.

Instead there is planning. He writes things in his moleskin and Cobb writes things on the whiteboard. Ariadne even draws things on the whiteboard.

Yusuf doesn’t write anything, because his formulas, while interesting, threaten migraines at their very mention.

(And that’s only in their basic form.)

Eames doesn’t write anything, either.

(This is probably because Arthur banned him from writing on anything that other people have to read about four and a half years ago.)

He does, however, make several vital contributions to the discussion, which Arthur writes down the same as the others, tilting his book further closed in his lap when he catches a pair of curious grey eyes drifting in the direction of his pen.

There is a mantra in Arthur’s head that makes it difficult to contribute much, mostly because the mantra includes the word _impossible_ three times and _asshole_ twice.

He jots his notes and shares a private word with Saito about fund negotiation while Eames and Ariadne make tea and coffee for everyone, snickering together over the hissing kettle. They return with a tray of mugs and beeline for Arthur.

‘Eames offered to show me what he’s working on,’ Ariadne chirps, sounding all too delighted. ‘You said you need to catch up on everyone’s progress. Want to come too?’

‘Did I say that?’ Arthur asks.

He doesn’t particularly like the look of scowling mockery that Ariadne throws him as she hands over his coffee.

.

.

( ** _five_** – _in which Arthur the Ex-Lover contemplates the meaning and finality of Ex_ )

.

.

The dream is soft edged, indistinct.

It feels like it’s been blanketed, so that all that remains is the glancing of silvery light from the mirrors that surround them.

This is Eames’ canvas, muted and gentle, so that the only thing really in sharp focus, the only colour to be found of any worth, is himself and the skin he slips into like a cool river.

Ariadne stares about her, silently horrified by the wasted potential of dreamspace.

Arthur knows, because he’s chided Eames’ laziness plenty before. The first time, he’d been stupid enough to ask if Eames _could_ build for himself.

(He’s learned to be less stupid, over the years.)

‘Has anyone thought to explain forgery to you before, Ariadne?’ Eames asks, hands on his hips, glancing archly at Arthur with a smirk.

Arthur rolls his eyes and allows Eames to pretend it’s negligence that holds Arthur tongue, and not the fact that the last time Arthur tried to articulate the finer intricacies of forgery Eames _accidentally_  spilled a rather expensive glass of merlot all over Arthur’s crisp white shirt.

Arthur just crosses his arms over his chest, nods at Ariadne’s wandering gaze as she takes a wild stab.

‘It’s in the name, right? Imitation. You create mirages.’

Eames’ indulgent smile is toothy, almost a leer. He inclines his head like a predator angling to pounce.

Ariadne shifts her feet, and the ground for all that it looks smooth crackles like gravel under her weight.

‘But I don’t understand how that’s any different to any dreams,’ she confesses with a scrutinising glare.

Her eyes rake over Eames’ bulky frame, as if expecting him to grow scales or sprout wings.

‘Well any tourist could come in and _dream_ ,’ Eames scoffs with enthusiasm, and Arthur rather thinks it’s a futile jab, given that they are unconscious and Saito can’t hear him. ‘But could they necessarily _build_ , like you can, hmm?’

Ariadne visibly considers his question, and Arthur is reminded all over again why he likes this girl so much. The light powdering of her makeup crinkles in her brow.

Eames appears to like what he sees, too, because he takes pity on her silence, and explains by example.

Arthur has tried to catch the molten shift of Eames’ forms before.

(Actually, he’s been trying very hard for years, ever since the day they met.)

(Actually, Eames had once tried to explain _why_ Arthur will never actually see the naked change, the brain’s natural inability to perceive the true transition of the illusion, delayed neurons and overactive optic nerves, but eventually he’d stumbled onto the term _perception filter_ , jolting himself into a fit of giggles that ended in words like _dalek_ and _Rose_ that were of no use to Arthur.)

He tries again anyway, now, but just as Eames promised, in the space of his blinks, Eames’ form shivers invisibly into that of another.

It’s a testament to Eames’ skills of observation that his forgery of Cobb reflects that of the current version waiting for them up top, and not the original pre-Mal’s Death academic he’s seen far more of over the years. He’s got it all, down to the more recent creases in his brow, the new, stooping curve of his shoulders.

Ariadne’s startled delight is every bit as wonderful as Arthur would hope it to be. Beneath Cobb’s stern jaw and creased brow, he can practically feel Eames’ preening.

(It’s amazing just how much of Eames’ presence Arthur can still feel, even now. Or maybe it’s not.)

‘Any dreamer could create a mirage of another face, enough that from a distance, for a few minutes at most, a mark might think they’re seeing someone else,’ Eames says using Cobb’s stolen voice, the stilted, gritty cadences, so exact, which Arthur really shouldn’t find surprising by now but somehow still does.

Eames continues, his hands just the right level of animated, hinting at frantic.

‘But just like buildings that are only dreamt of, not built, the façade would crumble under analysis. If you tried to enter a building only _imagined_ in a dream, you’d find it two dimensional, less than a hologram. And if someone who can’t forge tries to pull on another face, it would be no better than an ill fitting clown mask. You certainly couldn’t touch them.’

The implication is clear, the invitation even clearer.

Ariadne strides towards Eames without hesitation, arms outstretched, her fingers grasping his arms tight enough to pull him from a cliff’s edge, then softer, reaching up to touch Cobb’s face.

Eames stands stock still, probably the only real indicator that this isn’t Cobb at all that Arthur can find.

Arthur stares, transfixed by all the details of an art he’s only ever pretended to comprehend half the time. There are so many variables involved in forgery, too many that are impervious to predictive statistics for Arthur’s analytical brain to accept, and it’s been months since he’s had the chance to observe Eames in action under the PASIV.

Over a year, now, in fact.

‘But I _know_ you’re forging,’ Ariadne says stubbornly, standing back again to take in all of Eames – all of Cobb, rumple suited, squinting. Arthur almost smiles.

When Cobb’s bright blue eyes find his, he holds the stare. There’s a faint glow of a blush high on Cobb’s tan cheeks that Arthur is certain belongs to Eames.

‘How come I don’t see through it when I _know?’_ the young woman demands.

‘Same reason dreams don’t necessarily explode even when the subject is made aware of the dream,’ Arthur says.

Ariadne’s eyebrows rise considerably, still staring at Eames. They’re yet to discuss these subtle intricacies, though now is not the time, not when Arthur and Eames so regularly disagree on anything more than the basic mechanics of dreaming; Eames sneering at Arthur's bare _sterility_ , Arthur scowling at Eames'  _romantics_.

In a flurry of movement Eames reclaims his own face and offers up his progress on Browning to the floor for discussion, as well as the face and shape of a pretty slip of a junior manager with an abundance of single-mindedness and a penchant for scrunchies who noticeably catches Robert Fischer’s attention during meetings.

(‘ _J_ _ust in case, of course. Can’t be too careful, now, can we?_ ’)

Arthur spends a lot of time nodding along to Ariadne’s enthusiastic insights, and when Eames dismisses his attempt at congratulating him on successfully mastering two forgeries during his short internship at Fischer-Morrow with a brash comment about logic and duty and _just doing my bit to earn my share_ , Arthur ignores the hot flare of frustration that scalds his insides.

.

.

(The burning lingers when he wakes up, like a tight blister, itching.)

.

.

( ** _six_** – _in which Arthur the Point Man is a Point Man_ )

.

.

‘Are you ok?’

The question blindsides him.

These days it’s easy to forget that Cobb was something akin to his best friend at some point in their lives, before Arthur gave up everything.

It’s easy to pretend Cobb doesn’t know how much Arthur really gave up, how much he _noticed_ , how much he still  _notices,_ sometimes, when the fancy takes him.

But then Cobb glances up across the warehouse and back down to Arthur’s desk, which he’s leaning on with both hands, and Arthur doesn’t need to check to know Cobb’s eyes had found Eames, however briefly.

It's in the guilty shade of blue he blinks so innocently.

‘Is there anything you need, Cobb?’ Arthur asks coolly, and knows that if Cobb is still half the friend he once was, he’ll know Arthur isn’t ungrateful for the attention he’s being afforded, but is only tactfully ignoring it until he can find an appropriate time to appreciate it.

‘Not today,’ Cobb replies, looking defeated. ‘Don’t stay too late.’

He leaves Arthur to his research.

He seems to know better than to look over his shoulder as he walks away.

.

.

There is a missing piece.

.

.

It’s the only piece that really matters.

.

.

 _Did you hear about Eames?_ the text had read, ten months ago, when Arthur finally lost everything he gave up.

.

.

Arthur is in Riyadh when he receives it, feels frost in his arteries that his heart can’t thaw.

He knows the number, knows a face and a name he can put to it. The problem is, it’s a face and a name that he generally doesn’t trust with anything more than the broadest of gossip.

He replies, less than short and less then sweet. Then he waits.

He waits four minutes, during which time he manages to track Eames’ location to a lavish hotel in Monaco, where the casinos are large, the bets larger still.

It’s been a while since Arthur last checked up on him.

(It gets harder to stop every time.)

There’s a considerable amount of trouble that Eames could get himself into in Monaco, but none he can’t just as easily get himself out of with anything more than a light slap on the wrist and a disapproving glare.

(He’s gotten worse from Arthur, for Christ’s sake.)

Arthur waits four minutes, like a dream, stretched languid, agonising. He’s gifted with three gems.

_Walker-Stoneley Job ruffled a lot of feathers._

_Frankie Moran’s boys grabbed him in Vantaa._

_Heard it took him over a week to escape._

A further four minutes are enough to confirm the very recent, very fiery death of Frankie Moran, ever a friend to the Russians in times of need.

They’re enough to confirm a two week gap in his timeline of Eames’ whereabouts, who finished Walker-Stoneley several hundred thousand pounds richer on a cold Friday afternoon, and checked onto his flight to Monaco from Tallinn two days ago.

(Almost three weeks later.)

He’d used his Bradley Winston identity, one that would have flagged Arthur’s warning signs if he had made the effort to check before now.

(If he’d had the courage.)

He books a flight to Monaco, texts Cobb from the taxi he hails to the airport.

( _Personal business. Will email job details tomorrow.)_

.

.

(The last time Arthur saw Eames before Paris it was his silhouette, shaking, haloed by the backdrop of sparkling Monaco. It was through a fog of tears, with his heart in his throat and blood in his mouth.)

.

.

He washed the blood out the same day, but his heart’s never really found its way back to its rightful place.

.

.

( ** _seven_** – _in which Arthur the Betrayer feels very betrayed, but only by himself_ )

.

.

This is how the day ends:

.

.

Mr Saito and Cobb leave together, heads bowed in tense discussion.

Probably waltzing the circular debate of how exactly Saito hopes to eradicate a headhunt that drove Cobb all the way to the other side of the world.

Ariadne goes home earlier than she might like to, but only because she lives with girls who will jabber a lot of accusations in rapid French about dates and kisses and whatever the French for dirty stopover is if she gets back too late.

Yusuf packs his things, nods, mumbles something to Eames, slips out of the door with the shady curved shoulders of one who is sneaking off somewhere. Arthur doesn’t worry.

Then, finally, there are whispers.

(The whispers are inside Arthur’s head. They are hissing snakes that writhe like guilt, bite like anxiety.)

Arthur’s neck is stiff, hunched over a stack of notes that seems to breed every time he looks away.

Arthur feels sick, because he ate all the white chocolate from lunch without meaning to.

The warehouse lights aren’t strong. Half the building is engulfed in darkness, the other half dressed in greyish shadows like silk.

Arthur, ignoring the hissing writhing biting snakes quite valiantly, hears Eames’ approach, a creaking hush of feet inclined to tread lightly. A thief’s step. 

When he puts a hand on the desk, large and weathered and tanned, Arthur stares at it.

‘Goodnight Arthur,’ he says, inflections bizarrely clear when not muffled by a pillow or Arthur’s own chest.

The day might have ended here.

(It doesn’t.)

Instead Arthur looks up, takes hold of Eames’ wrist before he can turn away, pretends Eames doesn’t flinch. He holds steady.

Eames looks down at him. He’s painted with ghostly warehouse light and the kiss of Kenyan sunshine. He looks good, and this should make Arthur happy.

(It doesn’t.)

Eames has always worn his attractiveness like a second glance.

This space, right here, right now, might once have been filled only by a small gasp of breath at the collision of their mouths.

‘Eames,’ Arthur says, tighter than his grip on the forger’s wrist, where the bones feel thick and weak.

‘Is this what it’s going to be like?’ Arthur asks, sharper than the pain in his temples, ‘for the next – god knows how long?’

Eames, who is pedantic and facetious and cornered, asks, ‘Like what, exactly?’

Arthur, who has never pandered to this man’s games, stops playing.

‘Since when did we – _avoid_ each other, Eames?’

The answer is, quite plainly, since ten months ago, but that’s not what he means.

Eames licks his lips; the wet, lingering lick that looks like seduction because Eames has been cultivating his tells for years, the same as Arthur. Arthur reads him like a book; albeit one written in a language he doesn’t know the nouns of.

‘I don’t want to talk about this now, Arthur,’ Eames says, pulls a little harder, glowers at Arthur’s vice grip on his arm. ‘This is not the time,’ he mutters through gritted teeth.

Somewhere deep in his gut, or maybe between his ribs where he can’t reach, Arthur knows this, too.

‘I can’t work like this, Eames,’ he says, dangerous enough to be a threat, desperate enough to be something else.

It’s no lie.

Eames regards Arthur with an enforced measure of disdain so faint it’s almost impassive.

Active disregard or idle disinterest, it is a lie Eames wears like a crown.

‘You didn’t show much interest in listening last time,’ he replies.

His voice, delicately clipped and razor sharp, falls between them, words hanging like tattered threads that once held something aloft, something important and long lost.

‘Eames,’ Arthur splutters, feels the phantom cracking of his nose under Eames’ hard knuckles, the stinging tears that were barely pain, mostly betrayal. ‘You _sent me away_.’

The cold washing memory of his dismissal that felt more like banishment has never really left him, just settled into something bone deep and impenetrable over the past ten months.

Eames breathes hard through his nose, stares sharply to the left, to the pitch emptiness of the far end of the warehouse, far away from Arthur, who memorises his sleek profile all over again, as if he wouldn’t know it in a crowd of millions already.

‘Yes,’ Eames says, all razors gone until he is deflated, raspy, and when he faces Arthur again the words come out ugly and strangled. ‘And you left.’

Arthur blinks, rapid and prickling.

The words needle him so closely, their brittle points snapping inside his skin, that it takes a few seconds for them to find their way to his bloodstream. When they do, the vast chimera of guilt in his chest rears its terrible head, stealing all the words out of his mouth and back down his hot, dry throat.

Because Arthur has never heard such a vulnerable confession, not from Eames, perhaps not from anyone, and he’d thought all he ever wanted was a little vulnerability from this unflappably charming man, but now it’s here he wants to cover it back up like an aching, ugly, infected wound.

Eames is saying _I needed you_ ¸ the only way he probably knows how, with blank, glazed eyes and a slack, indifferent mouth. He’s saying _I didn’t mean it_ , which Arthur knew all along, even if he pretended not to.

Most of all, though, Eames is just saying _You left me._

And Arthur, blinded by the blatant betrayal in Eames’ forceful indifference, hears it like a scream.

 _You left me alone_.

.

.

Eames leaves, his footsteps whispering over the ground, and Arthur holds himself steady against the tide of pitiful hate that swarms him like a plague.

.

.

The day ends.

.

.

The world turns.

.

.

A few short weeks later, Maurice Fischer is dead.

.

.


	2. TWO

**835 days before Eames dies, they start over.**

**_Bangkok_ **

At the first hint of movement, Arthur opens his eyes.

His sleep, broken by the jolt of falling panic every half hour, is not mourned. He’s been waiting for signs of life from Eames’ slumped form ever since he passed out cold on the bed, fully clothed and shaking, hours ago.

Eames is lying on his belly, his arms tucked awkwardly close to his torso, so that his hands are squashed beneath his shoulders, and his legs are splayed. What little of his face that isn’t mashed into the creases of the pillow is tilted towards Arthur, shadowed in a sickly hangover glow, accompanied by creaking, laboured breaths.

Arthur watches the hint of movement, a snuffling hedgehog wriggle of his shoulders as he fights wakefulness, ripple over him a second time.

Slowly, with the reluctance of an interrupted hibernation, Eames begins to uncurl his arms, and pushes his face deeper into the pillows, breathing heavily.

Arthur, who has borne witness to the aftermaths of Eames’ drinking benders many times over, puts a knowledgeably placed flat, not quite heavy hand on the soft dip of spine between his shoulder blades. As he gently scrapes his thumb in lazy half circles over his back, sleep warm through his shirt, Eames sniffs and mumbles a protest even as he pushes back into the weight of the tiny movement.

Arthur smiles despite himself at the secret familiarity.

‘Eames,’ he says, barely more than a cautious whisper, and the cool air of the hotel room starts to thicken as the sleeping bundles of bones finally blinks awake, bleary and pinkish grey.

The windows are shut, the curtains hiding an early afternoon Bangkok from view, and in the semi darkness Eames stares at Arthur with a jolting mixture of relief and accusation.

Before Arthur can speak, however, Eames’ brain finally seems to catch up with his rolling stomach.

With a lack of grace Arthur is fairly certain he alone shall ever remain privy to – and doesn’t that burst an ungracious pleasure in Arthur that is a step towards sadistic, given the circumstances – Eames slips in a toppling of jenga block limbs off the linen and onto the floor.

The scramble to the bathroom, door left wide open in his shameless haste, is accompanied by a gut deep, retching sound that makes Arthur, who hasn’t touched alcohol since the night after the Fischer Job almost a month ago, feel a little queasy, too.

Arthur, who unlike Eames managed to strip to his undershirt and boxers and actually get _inside_ the bed last night, remains tucked in the safe haven of the covers, partly out of respect for whatever scraps remain of Eames’ pride, but mostly because there are just some things he won’t do for _anyone_ , and voluntarily putting himself within five feet of vomit for anything less than a life or death situation is one of those things.

(And while Eames probably thinks this is a life or death situation this very second, Arthur knows it is not.)

So instead he sinks back into the cushions, blocking out the crippling sounds of Eames’ guts smacking the inside of the toilet bowl with thoughts of how the rest of his plan is going to play out.

( _Thoughts of_ , in this instance, meaning actually forming a plan in his head at all, of course, because vigilant, meticulous Arthur is only driven to impulsive decisions by one thing – and that one thing is currently gasping for breath somewhere near the toilet U-bend.)

Flying to Bangkok, while definitely the _right_ impulsive decision regardless of its outcome, has been one of Arthur’s less _sensible_ impulsive decisions.

Eames has spent the past month since successfully performing inception neither celebrating nor hiding, but instead drifting with such determined aimlessness that he can only have been hoping to shake off Arthur’s uncanny Eames-radar, which since the aftermath of the Walker-Stonely Job has been left on full alert, the way it should have always been.

(Actually, Eames _did_ manage to shake him off, ten days ago, and he will never do so again because Arthur’s heart probably won’t be able to cope, and in this regard he does not simply mean the metaphorical well of his emotions.)

(But that, too.)

First, Eames has to reach the fuzzy, exhausted stage of his hangover, which experience dictates will come around very quickly after the alcohol has been purged.

Then, Arthur can pounce. He’ll apologise in great detail _before_ demanding an explanation, and Eames will be shamefaced and reluctant, but he’ll explain because he’s secretly wanted to be tracked down, ever since avoiding Arthur’s gaze at LAX And jumping straight onto a plane to London that probably took off before Cobb had even left the airport.

Won’t he?

Perhaps Arthur has misread him – it would hardly be the first time.

Maybe Eames will say goodbye. Last night, when Arthur all but carried him out of that bar before he could completely empty their stock singlehandedly, had included a very past tense confession, and maybe it’s only ever going to be a past tense truth.

Maybe Arthur’s too late. Maybe he should have stubbornly bought himself a ticket to London, too, the way he debated doing at the time.

_(I loved you I loved you I loved you I loved you I loved you I loved you I lo-)_

Arthur sits up,  resting back on his hands when the fifth flushing of the toilet is followed by a loud groan of colourful curses that, anxiety aside, twitch a smile on Arthur’s worry bitten lips.

Eames appears in the doorway, backlit by the bathroom’s sterile glare of white, and he leans against the doorframe for support.

He takes in the silky blue tones of the room’s décor, calm and soft, and squints at the clock, and looks like he wants to smile at the suit covers hanging in the open wardrobe. Or maybe Arthur’s being optimistic about that last one.

Finally, Eames takes in Arthur and the bed, stares impassively, mouth hanging open and it might be comical but he looks visibly pained by each quick breath, as if maybe he lost his oesophagus in the plumbing, too.

When he doesn’t speak, Arthur fills the silence for him.

‘You swore off tequila in 2007.’

It’s not what he meant to say, but it conjures a grin, albeit a half-hearted one, onto Eames’ face.

He’s flushed from the exertion of dispelling the demon drink, and he looks unsteady on his feet, shoulder pressing into the doorframe and knees knocking together as he shifts his weight. His hair’s a mess of fluffy gold cowlicks and his stubble’s almost too long and he looks like he wouldn’t say no to another few days of sleep.

It doesn’t stop him being the most goddamn beautiful thing Arthur has ever seen.

(And Arthur works in dreams, after all, which are by nature beautiful in their very existence.)

If Eames knows what Arthur’s thinking – which is often the case, infuriatingly so – he doesn’t show it.

He reaches up to his shirt, fumbling only a little as he unbuttons it, curious eyes never leaving Arthur’s face.

This is nothing new, but it feels different this time. Maybe because it’s been almost a year since Arthur’s felt so closely scrutinised, and it’s been two since that stare hasn’t been tainted by the enforced separation that Arthur will probably wrestle with the morals of for years to come.

The tattoos, unveiled slowly and silently, are comfortingly unchanged, and Arthur drinks them in greedily with a shameless stare that Eames, by some unknown magic, actually _blushes_ under.

Once he’s finally stripped down to his boxers, clothes crumpled on the floor, he hesitates, uncertain in a horribly unfamiliar manner, then announces in a tone that sounds all too much like asking for permission.

‘Shower? Then we’ll talk?’

Arthur likes to think he hasn’t unwittingly done irrevocable damage to dreamshare’s most unflappable forger. That if he’s accidentally aggravated any deeply rooted abandonment issues borne from a childhood Arthur knows very little and all too much about, he at least didn’t actively put them there himself.

(Of course Arthur knows the deal. You don’t fit into the skin of others as easily as changing your jacket without a few problems wearing your own in the first place.)

Still, he’s offered something too closely resembling pity to Eames twice in his life already. The first saw him stranded in the middle of Canberra at the six in the morning; the second ended up with a bloody nose in Monaco.

So when Eames says _Shower?_ as a question, and Arthur knows he isn’t being extended an invitation, he just wordlessly nods and eases himself back into the pillows.

He doesn’t acknowledge the relief that loosens Eames’ body like a downy blanket covering his insecurities in safe, soft cotton.

‘Right,’ Eames says, throat of gravel. ‘Won’t be long.’

Arthur watches his back disappear behind the door, waits until he can hear water running before letting out a despairing groan into the palms of his hands.

‘No, no, no, no, no,’ he mutters, dark and angry into his hands, rubbing the muscles in his face hard enough to unstitch them from his skull.

No, he definitely didn’t cause all of the vast and deep-set changes in Eames himself – Arthur would have to acknowledge an astonishing level of vanity on his part to think himself quite so vital and all-encompassing in the forger’s life – but it was enough to break their trust, which has always been a precious, tender thing, guarded close against the harsh winds of dreamshare. It was enough to trigger reckless tequila binges and taking jobs like Walker-Stonely, to be left so wide and open he’d be _stupid_ enough –

Arthur clenches his jaw, so tight he’s afraid for his molars, and breathes fast through his nose. In one swift movement he’s out of bed, blinking away an abrupt head rush and pacing barefoot over the plush carpet.

 _No_ , he tells himself firmly. He has to get a grip. He absolutely cannot lose his temper and start running off at the mouth, not this time.

Because Eames might know perfectly well that Arthur’s fears naturally translate into fury that’s more often than not automatically directed at the object of his concern, but the last thing he needs is to give Eames the impression he brought any of this on himself, let alone _deserved_ it.

He thinks about Monaco, despises himself a little more for the sake of wilful indulgence, then packs up all his self-pitying inward anger into a neat little box in the back of his mind, because it will be completely useless to him now.

.

.

(Arthur has always loathed uselessness most of all.)

.

.

_We should have sex._

Should we?

_Don’t tell me you’ve not thought about it._

Of course I have.

_And?_

Are you as talkative in bed as you are the rest of the time?

_You’d love it._

.

.

When Eames doesn’t emerge from the bathroom within the two minutes following the stuttering end of the shower, Arthur assumes he’s found his shaving gear and is making use of it.

He gets dressed to the imp quiet muttering coming through the bathroom door that has always accompanied Eames’ shaving habits. The kind that sounds carefree and mumbling, but is in fact almost as filthy as his pillow talk, albeit significantly less attractive.

It’s as sweet as music to Arthur’s ears, and he thinks maybe Eames is saying it even louder than usual. It might not be for Arthur’s benefit, but Eames so rarely does anything less than decisively, so it probably is.

After a moment’s debate he foregoes the tie in repayment.

The room service he had ordered while the shower was still hopefully loud enough in Eames’ ears arrives, a generously portioned house special dish that he already knows Eames in his current state will at best offer only a sneer. He had, in a fit of generosity at the last moment added a large bowl of fries to the order.

When it arrives it is dished out promptly by a quiet, delicately boned young man who offers Arthur a shy but honest smile as he leaves. The wide, ornately decorated plates on which it comes seem to take up the entirety of the table near the window, through which daylight is now pouring in abundance. Arthur sits down, stilling himself into a cool demeanour, just in time for Eames to re-enter the bedroom.

There’s a towel wrapped securely around his waist, his hair still damp, pushed back out of his face, and Arthur hasn’t seen him so closely shaved in a long time. Years look to have been lifted from his face, enough maybe to seem even younger than Arthur.

He smiles opaquely at Arthur’s loosened collar, then takes in the dishes covering the table where he’s sitting. He scowls at the food, personally offended.

‘I’m not eating anything,’ he says immediately, looking as defensive as he sounds and almost twice as accusatory.

Arthur nods innocently, picking up the fries and placing them somewhere close to the other side of the table, where an empty chair waits to be filled.

‘I know,’ he says, keeping his eyes on his food and waiting for Eames to approach of his own accord.

Which he does, hesitantly, one hand on his towel and the other on his belly, until he’s standing warily next to Arthur, close enough to touch with a short reach, far enough away that Arthur knows he’s only imagining the warmth he can feel radiating from his hot, soap scented skin.

‘Ok,’ Eames says. His eyes linger on the bowl Arthur has placed strategically close to him with suspicion, and Arthur ducks his head and takes a large mouthful of mixed vegetables to hide his smile.

Arthur, aware of the fluttering nerves he’s swallowing down along with his food, pours them both glasses of water and gestures to the empty chair.

‘Sit down,’ he offers, hoping it sounds less like a demand than he means it to be. When Eames still hesitates distrustfully, Arthur puts down his fork. ‘Eames,’ he says softly. ‘Please?’

Eames visibly fights against Arthur’s expression of innocence, but sits down anyway, one hand on his knee and the other on the table, fingers drumming into the polished wood.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks. He takes his glass of water in both hands, maybe for something to do with them.

Arthur can’t blame him. He only ordered quite such a large dish to ensure he’d have plenty to occupy himself with.

Not that he’s going to readily admit this, however, and instead he replies quite simply, ‘Eating lunch.’

Eames’ scowl deepens, pouting something awful and combined with all those damp tattoos Arthur can only stare determinedly at his plate of chicken and vegetables and rice and sauces and wonder why he ever thought his stomach was going to welcome all this food.

There is only the sound of his cutlery on the plates, and of Eames cautiously sipping water, for almost two minutes. Once, Arthur dares a glance up and is able to steal three or four seconds of uninterrupted scrutinising of Eames as he watches something disinterestedly out of the window, the sun a pale glare over his face and his eyes cool, clear, almost blue.

The second time, though, he catches Eames staring right at him, and though Eames doesn’t so much as blink Arthur returns his gaze to his food immediately, stuffs another water chestnut in his mouth to keep his thoughts from spilling out.

They’ve never been to Thailand together before. Arthur followed Eames to Cambodia once, and Eames has flown out to join Arthur in Beijing on at least two occasions, but this feels a lot like Eames’ territory. Eames comes to Southeast Asia to escape, just as Arthur does the States, and this time Arthur is not only uninvited but maybe, just maybe, unwanted, too.

‘Why are you here?’ Eames prompts when the silence between them begins to erupt in a prickling swell.

Arthur pauses, lets his knife slide and scrape on the plate as he drops it but keeps his fork tightly in his other hand, just in case he needs to shut himself up with food.

He steels himself and looks up, sees the expectant curiosity in Eames’ eyes, the surprise that hurts to look at. The wilful obtuseness of the question needles at Arthur, probably the way it was intended to.

‘Because I should’ve been here eleven months ago,’ he says outright, when all the other, less direct answers feel like lies burning holes in his tongue.

He doesn’t expect Eames’ eyebrows to raise comically, for him to sit back and open his entire expression in wonder at Arthur, who thinks maybe this won’t be the fight he’s been afraid of triggering ever since Eames arrived in Paris in June.

But then Eames opens his mouth, and Arthur realises he should’ve known better.

‘In Bangkok?’ he scoffs, vicious and teasing. ‘Why?’

Arthur lets his breath fall out of his lungs, heavy and empty. He shakes his head, eyes closed against the ugliness of Eames’ challenging expression, the hard meanness in his eyes.

‘Eames, please,’ Arthur says quietly. ‘I’m trying –’

When he pauses for even the slightest of moments, Eames pounces.

‘Trying?’ he spits, leans into it, and his hand on the table curls into a fist that Arthur glances at with a small amount of fear, leans back in his own chair to counter the aching distance between them. ‘Yes, Arthur?’ Eames asks, silky dangerous and quiet, the way he spoke in Bucharest when the chemist almost dropped them into the unknown depths of limbo out of pure carelessness. ‘Trying what, exactly?’

Arthur has never been spoken to like this before, not by Eames, and he hopes it never happens again. He would rather be shouted at than this.

‘For god’s sake, Eames,’ Arthur says, his voice cracking and his cheeks hot with frustration. ‘I’m trying to _apologise_.’

Eames sits back as if struck. The ice in his eyes thaws swiftly to thoughtfulness, a predator suddenly deciding he isn’t hungry after all. He licks his lips, bites them together as he considers Arthur in all his loose suited, blushing shame.

Then, almost certainly without realising it, he takes two fries from the bowl in front of him and eats them.

Another time, it might have made Arthur smile. Now, it simply re-stuffs all the courage that allowed him to get as far as Bangkok back into his lungs.

‘I had to leave,’ he says, hoping he’s got the meek expression right because it isn’t one he’s used to at all, and he shifts in his seat until he’s upright, until he’s feeling sufficiently vulnerable so that it might keep Eames’ attention. ‘I _had_ to go with Cobb.’

This is a truth that Arthur has clung to for two years. He has reminded himself of it at every turn, even when a vast majority of his being wanted to pronounce his old friend a lost cause and let the chips fall where they may.

But Arthur is not a man to let the chips fall, and he has stuck by his decision and even now can’t regret it. And Arthur knows that Eames knows this, that any part of Eames that still loves him, loves his stubborn loyalty as much as everything else.

Still, he’s tripped up on as many mistakes along the way as the next man. He’s just better at covering them up, or if not, simply pretending not to acknowledge them as mistakes.

(But this is different. This is very different. Arthur should have known that from the start.)

‘I shouldn’t have left the way I did,’ he continues, eyes never leaving Eames’ unreadable face, every wary line of it. ‘And I shouldn’t have let you think I was leaving you alone.’

If Eames is unhappy with the insinuation he doesn’t show it, and Arthur’s glad because it’s the truth. He had walked away even _hoping_ Eames would be the one to cut the ties himself for good, so that Arthur wouldn’t have to be the one that broke something he hadn’t acknowledged was so tender.

When Eames hadn’t, when Eames had only clung tighter to the mast as Arthur did his best to sink the ship, Arthur should have known.

‘You deserved to know I was still,’ he fumbles over the words, wishes he could conjure the ones he wants to say but when they reach his lips they feel awkward, insufficient, and he settles for easy. Easy and true. ‘ _Yours_.’

If anything Eames only closes up further. He crosses his arms over his chest, hands cradling his elbows like a nervous child. He swallows visibly.

‘Are you?’ he asks, and the barely perceptible wince around his eyes might be anything, but in the off chance it’s embarrassment Arthur leaps to eradicate it.

‘Yes,’ he says, knows it’s not only the right answer but the only remotely _true_ one, without a second thought. ‘Of course.’

When Eames hesitates again, Arthur knows with absolute certainty that he will wait for however long it takes for him to reply, be it minutes or years.

Actually, it turns out to be twenty seconds.

(They’re a painstakingly slow twenty seconds all the same.)

Then, the realest smile Arthur’s seen since arriving in Bangkok spreads across Eames’ face, tentative but very much there. His eyes glitter like the ocean, dark and impenetrable.

‘You’re a daft sod,’ he says, quite unexpectedly, and looks as if maybe he’s even surprised himself with his choice of words.

Arthur smiles back, feels his lungs uncoil themselves from the knots they’ve tangled around his ribs.

‘And you promised no more of this,’ Arthur says, tilting his head in the direction of the bathroom. For a moment he’s worried it’s a push too soon, but Eames reaches to take a handful of fries, eats three at once, and the grin widens a fraction.

‘So I did,’ he replies, sounding positively smug, as if he hadn’t been close to weeping into the toilet barely an hour ago.

Gratified, Arthur takes another bite of chicken.

The silence this time is nothing to be afraid of. They’ve shared almost as much comfortable silence over the years as they have conversation.

So this time, when Arthur peeks through his lashes at Eames, he doesn’t avert his gaze when he eventually, inevitably, gets caught.

He doesn’t smile either, though. His eyes slip over the coarse, tan familiar skin, less pink from the shower, now, the dark gold dustings of hair.

Some time between the disaster of Monaco and the Fischer Job the bulk of Eames’ muscles had thickened, that much Arthur had noticed at the time, and now he takes in the new, slightly broader lines of his shoulders. He’s secretly impressed with himself for having managed to carry not just half but _most_ of that weight such a distance across bustling Bangkok last night.

Eames, silent, lets him. In fact, he seems to be appreciating the time to scrutinise Arthur, too, despite him being both less changed and significantly less bare.

But as Arthur’s eyes scrape the column of Eames’ throat he sees the thick, pale scar tissue that had the last time he’d laid eyes on it, been red and inflamed, barely healed. He remembers all over again just how _not good_ things are, however comforting it is to know they are not unfixable.

Are in fact very fixable, with enough patience on both their parts. But Arthur finds himself lacking in patience.

(Always has done where Eames is concerned, for a multitude of reasons he’s been ignoring with increasing fervour for years.)

‘Why didn’t you call?’ he asks abruptly, doesn’t attempt to mask his hurt or his frustration because they are too deeply ingrained in every thought he has about the last year of their lives.

Eames swallows again, grimacing and looking down to scratch at a thread in his towel.

‘Eames,’ Arthur prompts, only managing to deepen the scowl Eames is offering the innocent towel.

Arthur wants to stretch across the table until his hands can find that warm skin and hard flesh and remind himself it’s all still there, that Eames is _here_ and so is Arthur.

Instead he reaches only as far as the other end of the table, so he can lay his hand flat on its surface next to the bowl of fries, where Eames proceeds to stare at it as if afraid of what he’ll do, as if this gesture has ever been anything other than an open offering.

‘It’s ok,’ Arthur says, then squirms awkwardly because actually he has _no idea_ if it’s ok. He has no idea if Eames is ok, not really. Walker-Stonely was a name in passing, its significance revealing itself only too late to do anything other than regret.

He never got an explanation from Eames in Monaco and he never asked for one in Paris. He has only the words of others and the memory of the fierce terror lurking deep in Eames’ eyes before his anger could mask it.

‘Talk to me,’ he says, a little louder, tries not to sound desperate but has no problem pleading if it comes to it.

Eames’ eyes are still fixed on his hand where it rests on the table, frowning at it, and Arthur is beginning to suspect he’s not really looking at it at all, or at least not seeing it, but is seeing something else, something Arthur resolutely does not want to know but needs to find out all the same.

He waits, and is finally rewarded when Eames takes a deep breath, makes the plunge, all the while staring at Arthur’s outstretched hand, never reaching back.

‘I’m clean,’ he says, and it’s a line of thought so far from the one Arthur anticipated that it throws him, hard, in a direction that frightens him, because in two words Eames has confessed more than all the jargon he spewed eleven months ago.  ‘Just – so you know.’

All the truths Arthur has feared are so decidedly confirmed that he feels the heavy thudding of his heart and it’s a pain in his sternum and in his skull to think that _this_ is how Eames tells him what he should have been able to tell Arthur from the beginning.

‘Eames – _Jesus_ ,’ Arthur splutters, scrambles to recalibrate his brain before Eames notices the horror in the downturn of his mouth. ‘I mean – _good_ , I’m glad, but – but you have _got_ to know that’s the last thing on my mind right now.’

He almost backtracks when the words don’t seem to come out as intended, but Eames’ eyes finally return to his face, and they’re gravely stern, cutting through all of Arthur’s flustering so that he feels about two inches tall.

‘It’s quite important though,’ Eames replies, sounds harrowingly close to conversational as he says it.

Like the heavy crumbling of the dream as it collapses, Arthur suddenly feels, really _feels_ , the weight of the eleven months Eames has had to deal with this, maybe alone for most of it. Eames has never been friendless, but he’s perhaps the only person Arthur knows whose capacity for trust is even smaller than his own.

Every thought Arthur is going to have about this, he realises, Eames has already had twenty times over.

‘Yes,’ he says, breathless, because he’s hardly in a place to contradict Eames on the matter, doesn’t want to anyway because Eames is right. ‘Yes, it is.’

Eames moves, his whole body shifting as if he’s thinking about standing up. In the end, he simply lifts one hand to rest it feather light on top of Arthur’s, barely long enough for Arthur to feel the warmth of his skin, the weight of his palm. Then he removes it, and instead takes another handful of fries.

Arthur wants to hear his voice again, wants to ask his questions knowing there’s now a chance he’ll be answered, but Eames’ eyes when they dart between Arthur and the window seem to plead silence, so Arthur eats some more, too.

The food’s going cold despite the hotplates, so he does little more than nudge the vegetables around the thick, dark sauce, nibbling tiny bites of rice.

His appetite is growing, but with every bite it’s becoming clearer it’s not food that’s going to sate it.

Once, they played chess for five hours without saying a single word that wasn’t _check_ or _mate._

Thessaloniki, dry scorching heat that had Arthur panting and Eames smirking.

If Arthur has to sit through another five hours of silence with only Thai food to fill it, he’ll do it.

Maybe he should have brought a chess set.

(Cobb thinks Arthur’s attention to detail is restricted to his work ethic, and finds it useful.)

(Eames knows Arthur just can’t help himself, and finds it ridiculous.)

‘ _Arthur_.’

Eames’ voice, however much Arthur had wanted to hear it, jolts him out of his thoughts with a startled hum, and he almost chokes on a clump of rice grains in his haste to reply.

‘Yes?’ he says, as politely as he can manage, taking a hasty sip of water..

Eames is tapping the table with his thumb, doesn’t seem to have noticed Arthur’s momentary lapse, and his eyes are on the bowl of fries, which is half empty already.

For a long pause it appears Eames loses his nerve, but then he speaks. And the words, unapologetic and crippling, shouldn’t be half as surprising as they are.

‘I really – really hated you,’ Eames says, each word weighted deliberately, hesitant but not fearful. Arthur feels his insides cool, everything – perhaps even his heart – going still, silent. He listens and tries not wobble when Eames glances up at him with misted eyes. ‘For not being there.’

It shouldn’t be a surprise at all. What else could Arthur have expected?

He hated _himself._ Of course Eames did too.

If Eames sees this in Arthur’s calm, blank expression, he doesn’t acknowledge it, but continues with the same thoughtful deliberation.

‘For not – I just thought you were going to find me. I really –’ he falters and stumbles, and the words begin to tumble out at a rapidly increasing pace, trickle to waterfall in a matter of heartbeats tattooing Arthur’s breastbone something terrible. ‘And I don’t know if I’ve forgiven you yet. I’m trying. I wanted to. I wanted to drag you to the nearest hotel the second we landed in LAX and keep you there for a week, but I couldn’t.’

Eames pauses, breathless, gulping a lungful of air, and when he leans over he leans all the way to grasp one of Arthur’s hands, tight, bruising, wonderful.

‘I got _used_ to your absence, Arthur,’ he says, and when it sounds apologetic Arthur feels a splinter in his heart dig a little deeper, because isn’t that what Arthur had hoped for the in the first place? Eames, it appears, never figured that out. ‘That wasn’t ever supposed to happen,’ he says.

Arthur has never been so grateful for Eames’ occasionally wilful obtuseness.

His fork clattering on the plate is loud, and they both flinch at the sound. Arthur takes hold of Eames’ hand, stills the tapping on the table and squeezes hard, fingers over his wrist to feel the hummingbird thrumming of his veins.

‘I took you for granted,’ he says, hears it before he feels his lips moving.

‘I’m not leaving again,’ he says, answers the question he hopes for rather than the one he hears in Eames’ silence. ‘I’m never leaving you again. I swear. Not for anything.’

.

.

(Here is a truth: Arthur doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.)

.

.

(Here is another truth: sometimes promises can’t be kept.)

.

.

(Here is a third truth: Eames knows this better than anybody.)

.

.

Eames looks at Arthur with spider grey eyes full of a dark shade of distrust. There’s a damp line along his hairline that might be from the shower, and there are lines on his face, laughter lines and frown lines that weren’t there eight years ago, and the expression he’s wearing is the unreadable forger face that Arthur once threatened to slap if he ever saw it again.

The light of the room casts shadows between them, and Arthur feels them like angry phantoms.

When Eames does not reply, Arthur fills the gaps.

‘Unless you ask me to leave.’

(This is a lie. Not that he will never leave, but that he will leave if asked to. Arthur is going to know where Eames is for the rest of his life even if he never sees him face to face again after today.)

Eames’ eyes soften fondly, flicker over Arthur’s face like he might catch him in a kiss.

‘I believe that you believe that,’ he says, slow and kind and diplomatic and all the things he’s not.

Arthur could argue. He could get offended or he could push harder or he could insist he’ll prove himself to Eames, but it will do no good.

So instead Arthur smiles a bright, winning smile, as if to say simply _yes, I do believe that_.

Arthur could say what he is thinking.

Arthur could say _I’m so sorry_ and _I love you_ and _I’m sorry_ and _I need you to stay_ and _I need you to forgive me_.

Instead Arthur says, ‘Eat your chips, Eames.’

The fries are halfway to Eames’ mouth in his free hand when he really hears Arthur’s words. His mouth is open, so when he smiles, surprised and delighted, it’s the biggest smile Arthur’s seen in two years, wide and toothy and proud.

A laugh chuffs in his throat, dry and cracked and so, so warm.

‘I’m not hungry,’ Eames replies, wets his lips with his tongue and shoves the fries in his mouth.

Arthur lets go of Eames’ hand with one of his own, lets the other loosen to a soft grip until their fingers intertwine. He takes a fry out of the bowl and waves it in Eames’ face.

‘I know,’ he replies, and eats it.

Eames’ smile doesn’t change.

Arthur takes him in, all his smiling, tattooed, shower damp glory.

‘And no more tequila,’ Arthur scolds.

Eames’ fingers wrap around his, then, and his spider grey eyes are still distrusting, but it’s the distrust he’s always worn like a blanket over his shoulders, loose and barely necessary when Arthur’s around, a habit not worth breaking because Arthur knows what lies beneath already.

‘No more tequila,’ Eames murmurs.

.

.

(If this is a lie, it’s the sort of one Arthur wants to hear.)

.

.

Time crawls, silken and brave.

.

.

Here is something important:

Eames has forgiven three people their blunders in his life.

.

.

Here is something more important:

Arthur and Eames found each other.

.

.

835 days in the future, as he slips the chain from around Eames' bloody neck and douses his corpse with gasoline, Arthur will resent this long before he appreciates it, but that’s ok.

.

.

Lastly there is this:

When Arthur dies there is grey in his hair, blood in his throat, and lines on his face.

When Arthur dies he is alone, but not as alone as he might have been.

.

.


End file.
